


Who Will You Run To

by debirlfan



Category: Airwolf
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, First Time, One Shot, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-25
Updated: 2010-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debirlfan/pseuds/debirlfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ken Sawyer straps an explosive vest to her in the "Kingdom Come" episode, Caitlin finds comfort from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Will You Run To

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle 10, prompts - bruises, floor, tied  
> This is a stand alone episode addition and is not connected to my "Journeyverse" series.

\- Post "Kingdom Come" -

Alone in the cabin, Caitlin stripped off her clothes and stepped into Hawke's shower, adjusting the temperature until it was as hot as she could stand.

After Michael and Babe had rescued her from the ship, she had forced herself to sit through the resultant debriefing with String and Dom. Michael had kept it mercifully short. Once they were done, the guys had asked her to spend the night at the cabin. Not really wanting to be alone, it was an offer she had gratefully accepted, but then they had gotten the call from Van Nuys. Wildfires had flared near Topanga, blocking roads, and Santini Air had been asked to help with the evacuation. With the flames closing in, they couldn't afford to wait for morning. Dom had offered to stay with her, but getting people out of the path of the fire was more important than having him hold her hand, regardless of how rattled she was.

Sighing, she let the water wash over her, rinsing away sweat and fear. Caitlin rubbed at the bruises on her wrists, ugly reminders of where Sawyer had tied her, wishing she could lather them away. Her mind kept drifting back to how he had used her, how he had nearly killed her. She shivered despite the heat of the water.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the throb of helicopter blades intruded over the steady beat of the shower. The volume grew as the craft approached, and in her mind she pictured the Santini chopper descending onto the dock. As she shut off the water the sound receded–the helicopter taking off again instead of powering down as she had expected. It appeared that Dom had decided to keep her company after all. She surmised that they had found someone else to fly Santini's second helicopter, and that String had dropped Dom off between runs.

Caitlin stepped out of the shower and toweled herself off, taking the time to brush out her hair until it was nearly dry. She had grabbed a shirt of Hawke's to sleep in, and now she pulled it on, covering it with an old robe left at the cabin weeks earlier.

As she started down the steps from the loft, she saw that there was a fire burning in the fireplace, its comforting warmth and flickering light a welcome distraction from her current state of mind. "Dom, I-- Oh!" she broke off as she rounded the corner to discover that the figure seated at the bar was most definitely not the aging Italian. Caitlin felt the color rise in her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I thought Dom..."

Michael chuckled. "First time I've even been mistaken for Santini."

Caitlin wrapped her arms around her. It wasn't that what she was wearing was particularly revealing, it was just that it was old and shabby, and this was Michael. "String and Dom aren't here, they're up at Topanga--"

"Helping with the evacuation," he finished for her. "I sent a few of my people to assist as well."

She had assumed that Michael was looking for Hawke, but now she noticed the glass of wine he held, the open bottle resting on the bar, and the second glass waiting beside it. "Let me guess, String asked you to come check on me?"

"Haven't talked to him, or Santini, for that matter," Michael added, before she could suggest it. "I overheard Hawke ask you to come up here, but then when the fire broke out..." The agent set his glass down and lifted the bottle, pouring wine into the second glass. He held it out to her. "I raided the wine cabinet. This is some of Hawke's finest. I don't think he'd object." He hesitated. "I had one of my pilots drop me off. After all that happened... I wanted to be sure you were alright."

Caitlin reached out to take the glass, and saw that her hand was shaking. She was certain that he had noticed it, too. "Let's take this over by the fire," she suggested, hoping he would believe that she was simply cold.

She crossed into what passed for Hawke's living room, and folded herself onto the end of the sofa, her legs pulled up beneath her. Michael followed. He set his glass and the bottle on the coffee table, then retrieved a folded quilt from the back of the chair and draped it around her. Caitlin absently fingered the material. "Thank you."

Michael sat down on the other end of the couch and picked up his glass. "You're welcome." He sipped at the wine and stretched his bad leg, grimacing slightly as he moved.

A pang of guilt washed through her. Surely the Firm's deputy director had other things he should be doing, and if not, he could at least be home in his own bed. "You know, I'm really fine, Michael. As much as I appreciate the thought, I don't need a babysitter."

"I never said you did." He leaned over to refill her glass. "Sawyer used to be one of my people, Cait. I should have seen what he was capable of. If Airwolf's computers hadn't found that frequency... Damn bastard would have killed us all."

She remembered then, what her mind had been conveniently ignoring. Michael had been there. He had come on board that horrible, rotting, explosive-riddled ship searching for her. He had stayed, even when it became obvious there was nothing Babe could do. The wine combined with the stress of the day served to loosen her tongue. "Why did you stay?"

He hesitated for just a beat. "The Firm is similar to the military in some ways. We don't like to leave people behind."

Caitlin snorted at that. "No, the Firm doesn't leave people behind. They send the Zebra squad in to kill them." He should know. More than once the squad had gone after him.

Michael shrugged, seemingly intent upon pouring more wine into his own glass. He didn't meet her gaze. "With this knee, I couldn't have moved fast enough to get out of there, anyhow."

That was a bald-faced lie. Caitlin had seen how fast Michael could move when he needed to. She considered calling him on it, but didn't. If he chose not to explain his actions, then she wouldn't pry. "Well, at any rate, I thank you. It was easier, somehow, having you there." Impulsively, she leaned across the space between them, planning to punctuate her appreciation with a quick peck on his cheek.

As she moved, she somehow tangled in the quilt and overbalanced. He turned to keep her from falling, and the kiss intended for his cheek instead found his lips. Caitlin scrambled away as quickly as she could, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"I think it's time to cut you off." His mustache twitched in amusement, and he reached for the wine bottle, making a show of sliding it toward his end of the table. "Not that I should complain. I haven't been attacked like that in years."

Relieved that he wasn't upset, Caitlin felt herself relax. The kiss replayed itself in her mind—the musky scent of his cologne, the unexpected softness of the hair that covered his upper lip. Most surprisingly, the way that he had kissed her back in that moment before she had pulled away. "Oh?" she asked. Michael was a handsome man, with roguish good looks and a confident swagger that somehow was only accented by the cane he carried. Caitlin edged closer. "That's a shame." With a courage she didn't know she possessed, she pushed the quilt out of the way and leaned toward him again, more carefully this time. Her hands gripped his shoulders, keeping her steady as her lips found his.

Those lips opened to her, deepening the contact. His hands urged her closer until, finally, he released her, breathing hard. "Cait... Cait, you've been drinking, that idiot Sawyer tried to kill you... The last thing I want is to take advantage."

She smiled at that. "It takes more than just a couple glasses of wine to get me drunk." She wasn't drunk, but if pressed she might have admitted—at least to herself—that the combination of alcohol and tattered emotions were the only things making her bold enough to continue.

He stroked her jaw with light fingertips. "You're sure?"

In answer, she kissed him again. Michael pulled her into his lap, then steadied her with one hand as he worked to untie the belt of the robe with the other. Once it was loose, he slipped that hand inside, long fingers cupping her breast through the coarse fabric of Hawke's shirt.

Michael had changed his clothes since the debriefing. The pristine, finely tailored three-piece suit had been replaced by a sweater over white shirt and pants, his version of casual wear. Caitlin began to pull on the sweater, and he leaned forward so she could work it free, finally breaking contact with her long enough to shed it. Dropping it to the side, she shrugged the robe off her shoulders.

He turned his attention to her neck. Lips tasted the sensitive flesh, working their way upwards towards her ear, all the while his hands exploring. Fingers traced the line of her thigh, a thumb teased a nipple. As enjoyable as it was, hers wasn't a particularly stable position, and she started to slide. Unwilling to stop, she edged further into his lap. His body's response to her was immediately obvious. As she brushed against him, he groaned into her mouth. She pulled away reluctantly. "I don't think the sofa is really meant for this."

"You want to go upstairs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No." Upstairs would mean Hawke's bed, and while she and String were no more than friends, that still seemed too much like a betrayal. She considered possibilities. "The floor, in front of the fireplace." It occurred to her belatedly that it might be uncomfortable for him. "If that's okay?"

He seemed relieved at the suggestion, perhaps having the same qualms she had about the upstairs bedroom. "Oh, I think we can make it work."

Knowing that if she tripped, she'd never convince him that it wasn't the wine, Caitlin carefully untangled her feet from the quilt. Rising, she arranged it in front of the fire. There were blankets kept in boxes under the windows, and she retrieved a pile, shaking them out and spreading them over the quilt. She was grateful that Tet was somewhere outside, the dog doing whatever it was that he did when Hawke wasn't around.

"Expecting a cold spell?" Michael teased, emptying the last of the wine into their glasses.

"I thought it might be more comfortable."

He closed the few steps to her. Lips brushed her forehead as his hands closed around her waist, and she shivered for reasons that had nothing to do with the temperature. Michael undoubtedly felt it; he eased back from her. "If you're having second thoughts..."

She met his gaze. "I'm not." Caitlin wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, but it definitely wasn't doubt. Her fingers went to his shirt, undoing the buttons, then loosened his belt and began tugging the shirttails free from his pants.

Michael's hands closed over hers, stilling them. "Cait, did Hawke... did he ever tell you how Moffet got ahold of Airwolf?"

"What?" It took her a moment to register the question, longer to understand its meaning. Michael had nearly died when Moffet destroyed the test site. The bad leg and blind eye were far from the extent of his injuries. "He told me. You went through hell."

Michael shrugged almost imperceptibly. "I survived. A lot of people didn't." Raising her hand to his lips, he dipped his head to kiss her fingers before releasing her.

Caitlin returned to her task and succeeded in freeing his shirt. Slowly, she slipped it from him. As she did, her breath caught in her throat. The fabric hung unnoticed from her fingers. Knowing and seeing were two very different things. Michael's torso was the canvas of a mad artist, abstract strokes etched deep into his skin, strokes that had once been painted in blood. A long, jagged scar along his shoulder, another, surgically precise, across his stomach. They were joined by too many more to count. He really had gone through hell. She fought back tears, and horror warred with anger. If Moffet hadn't already been dead, she would have killed him herself with her bare hands.

Silently, Michael took the shirt from her and started to put it back on. Caitlin finally found her voice. "Don't. Don't you dare." Snatching the garment back, she balled it up and threw it onto the sofa. She leaned forward to kiss him, then lowered herself onto the blankets. "Come down here with me."

He knelt with more grace than she would have expected, given his damaged knee. Shoes and socks were kicked off, and he pulled her back into his lap. One hand tangled in her hair, he kissed her shoulders, continuing up the back of her neck, even as the nails of his other hand scraped lightly at the inside of her thigh, working slowly higher.

It felt so very good, but she wanted to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin pressed against hers. She turned, letting her hand trace his length through the fabric of his pants. "Please, Michael, take these off."

The faintest smile crossed his face. "Only if you go first."

"Then why don't you help me?"

She didn't have to ask twice. The shirt she wore was loose enough that he simply pulled it off over her head, leaving her naked. There was no mistaking the desire in the look he gave her. "You're beautiful, Cait. Absolutely beautiful."

Caitlin felt herself blush. "It's your turn." She slid pants and briefs down over his hips, and he pushed them the rest of the way off.

"Disappointed?" he asked, as she appraised him.

"Never." She forced herself to look beyond the scars. Beneath them, he was lean and finely muscled. Caitlin leaned into him. She moved one knee between his legs, grinding against him and eliciting a loud groan. It was a sound she wanted to hear him make again. Her fingers trailed lightly along his thigh, moving higher and pulling him to her.

In answer, he guided her down into the nest of blankets, pinning her beneath him. Lips and mustache teased her breast, and his fingers slipped between her already wet folds, stroking her core. His touch sent sparks coursing along her nerves, but it wasn't enough. She wanted him inside her. "Michael, make love to me," she begged, her voice barely a whisper.

He entered her slowly, moving with an exquisite restraint she didn't possess. "More, Michael," she urged. Caitlin wrapped her legs around him, trying to pull him more deeply into her. "Please."

"Patience. Trust me."

Michael kept the same pace, letting the fire build within her. She realized he was right; he played her body as if it was a piano, sending sensations through her she had never felt before. It was something most men would never have the self-control to achieve.

"Feel good?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Good. Wonderful." She felt as if she might explode. "So close."

His mustache tickled her ear as he breathed into it. "Come for me, Cait."

It was enough to send her over the edge, and he fell with her, shuddering his release as she arched against him. They both rode it to completion, then he collapsed beside her.

"That was incredible," she told him, when she could speak again.

"It was, wasn't it." Michael sat up for a moment, finding one of the blankets they had managed to kick aside and pulling it over them before laying back down beside her, his arm draped around her. "Tired?" he asked.

"No..." she started to deny it, only to break off to stifle a yawn. "I guess I am."

"Think you can sleep?"

She considered it. "Yeah." Sawyer and the events of the day seemed a world away, and the flames in the fireplace were dying down. There was another problem, though, one she had no idea how to confront. "Michael, String will be back in the morning."

"I know. Lydia is working dispatch for the evacuation. I told her to radio me when Hawke and Santini leave."

It would give them at least half an hour's warning. Caitlin wasn't sure what Michael intended to do with it, and was even less certain that she wanted to ask. They would sort it out in the morning. For now, she snuggled against him, and slept.


End file.
